


Routine

by parcequelle



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:21:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Janeway is assigned to pre-mission briefings with Admiral Alynna Nechayev, the woman born with creases around her eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the season 7 TNG episode _Journey's End_. Written because I love Nechayev, and I wish for everyone else to love her, too.

They meet at the usual place at the usual time. Kathryn makes it a point not to keep the admiral waiting, for the semblance of peace she has worked to establish between them is a fragile thing, and she knows that it’s important to maintain respect. It’s taken weeks of forcing a smile when she’d rather grimace at the strain, of holding her tongue when she’d rather snap, of showing restraint when she’d rather stand and stalk away, but she values the product. She knows that Nechayev appreciates even small gestures of consideration, so she arrives twenty minutes before she’s expected and waits.

She’s sitting with her back half-turned on the entrance of the café when Nechayev approaches, and doesn’t even notice her presence until her silhouette crosses the sunlight in Kathryn's path. There are two empty coffee cups gracing the table in front of her, a stack of PADDs strewn haphazardly around them, and she feels the weight of Nechayev’s eyes from above her. Today, Kathryn’s hair is pulled back in a new and elaborate style of braid, and it is practical but considered, ornamental but neat; the kind of contradiction that always makes Nechayev draw her eyebrows and frown. Kathryn pretends that that has no bearing on why she does it.

Nechayev stands straight beside her with her hands linked behind her back. Without preamble, she says, “Captain. I trust you haven’t been waiting long?”

Her voice, sharp and clear, pulls Kathryn’s attention completely away from her work, and she tips her head in slight silent greeting. She would stand, but – as always – Nechayev has seated herself before she can take the chance. She gestures vaguely to the interior of the café. “Something to drink, Admiral?”

“No.” One word, one shake of the head. Business as usual.

Kathryn sets the PADD down beside her empty coffee cups, signals a holographic waiter to bring her another. “You’re back early,” she says. She can do business as usual just as well. “How was your meeting with Jean-Luc Picard?”

“Fruitless, as can be expected.”

“I'm sorry.”

Nechayev's eyes stab at hers. “I'm sure that the colonists of Dorvan V would share the sentiment.”

Kathryn says nothing.

After a moment, Nechayev adds, “Picard replicated Bularian canapés.” She looks almost reluctant, almost surprised that she’s said it.

Kathryn blinks away her own surprise and asks, “A personal favourite, I’d imagine?”

“Something like that.” She narrows her eyes. “Why are you smiling?”

“They also happen to be a favourite of Admiral Paris’. Though I must say,” Kathryn continues, nodding her thanks to the waiter and taking a sip from her fresh cup, “he doesn’t wear the evidence quite the way you do.”

Nechayev seems thrown a little by the offhanded—genuine—compliment, but she allows Kathryn a tolerant look in response. “Of course,” she says, “Captain Picard only felt he should make me feel welcome. I am his superior officer, after all.” Her mouth twists into a smirk, and Kathryn sees her eyes flash with something far more complex than hurt. “You don't have to like us, but you do have to follow our orders, isn't that it?”

Kathryn holds her eyes and echoes, “Something like that.”

“I know these things,” Nechayev tells her. “I was a captain once, too, you know.”

“I know, sir,” Kathryn says. She almost smiles.

*

Too often, Kathryn finds herself thinking of five weeks earlier, of how Starfleet Command and necessity forced them together, into bi-weekly meetings stilted with hard looks and the rumour that _Nechayev doesn’t like Janeway; everyone knows that_ pervading the air.

She thinks about how they finally established a delicate rapport over mutual loathing of the same vice-admiral, of how Nechayev managed to quietly apologise to her for all those well-spread rumours without ever saying a word.

*

Nechayev’s apartment is as sparse as her office at Starfleet Headquarters, and Kathryn isn’t surprised to find that the only signs of decoration on the walls bear a Starfleet insignia – a sealed cabinet of honours commending her lengthy career in the field: exemplary service medals; blue ribbons from extracurricula Starfleet Academy events Kathryn remembers making any excuse to flee.

They are here to pick up some classified files Nechayev was working from home, and it is with an uncharacteristic sense of discomfort that Kathryn stands in her hallway, trying not to wonder how many others have stood in her place, if any have.

“I know what you’re thinking, Janeway. It’s not the most colourful of places.”

“Yes, sir.” She knows better than to protest. “But if you don’t mind my saying so, Admiral, I can’t imagine you’d spend a lot of time here.”

Nechayev nods a silent acknowledgement, pauses to trail her thin fingers through the layer of dust on her mantle. “Even so,” she says, “I like it better this way. I distrust extravagance, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe in efficiency and logic. I believe in working to benefit the greater good. I believe that there are times when sacrifice of the individual or the few is a necessary price to pay for continued peace.”

Nechayev isn’t looking at her. Kathryn is uncertain how to respond, is uncertain if she is expected to respond. She knows what the admiral is talking about, but she watches Alynna Nechayev slide her small hands over the glass cabinet and she thinks she probably shouldn’t speak, that it is not her place to disturb this woman’s quiet internal war. Finally, however, when the silence stretches on, she opens her mouth.

“I know you do, Admiral.” Kathryn hazards a step toward her, tries not to let the tension show in her body. “I—appreciate the difficulty of your position. You’ve taken on a job no-one else wanted to do, and I respect you for it.”

Nechayev doesn’t turn around, but she does stop moving. She’s listening.

“And I want you to know that,” Kathryn continues, “in case you were under the impression that I would ever dispute your authority on these matters. I may not always agree with you, Admiral, but I will always believe that you act in accordance with what _you_ believe to be right.” She takes a breath. “And I’m glad that we’ve come to work so well together.”

Now she does turn, and her gaze is far more piercing than Kathryn expected; she is evaluating her, openly, sizing her up in a way that makes Kathryn feel exposed. But she stands her ground and holds her gaze, and after countless moments of this, Nechayev smiles. It takes years off her face. She says: “So am I.”

*

Kathryn has heard the murmurs for years, still hears them now, but she has never been convinced by Nechayev’s polished and guarded exterior. When she looks at Nechayev’s face she recognises weariness, sorrow, regret; but not cruelty, not malice. Never malice. This woman, this officer, does not set about with the intention of creating difficulty.

Kathryn has never been one to put much stock in rumour – she’s a scientist, after all; she requires tangible evidence before she’ll make her judgments – and it is for this reason that she refuses to condemn Nechayev before they begin their bi-weekly meetings. Admiral Paris requests a meeting with her a day before they begin; he wants to brief her on the most recent happenings in the demilitarised zone before her official pre-mission briefings take place. When he’s finished, he watches her over steepled fingers, his eyes sharp and clear, and declares that he knows she won’t let Nechayev intimidate her.

“Certainly not,” she tells him smoothly. “In fact, I’m looking forward to working with Admiral Nechayev – she may have a reputation as a hardliner, but that’s never scared me before and it doesn’t scare me now. I know she’s done a lot of work mediating these border disputes, and I’d like to help her in any way I can.”

Paris nods at her; she’d almost think he was trying not to smile. He walks around to her side of the desk and squeezes her shoulder. “You’ve come a long way from the brash cadet I used to know, Captain. You’ve earned this post, and I know you’ll do me proud.”

“Thank you, sir.” She stands and smiles. “I appreciate it.”

He takes the hand she extends and shakes it. “Admiral Nechayev has requested your presence in her office at 0900, so I’ll see you back here tomorrow.”

“Until then.” Kathryn nods and turns to leave, but Paris stops her.

“Oh, and Captain?”

She turns.

“Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir.” She refrains from adding, _I’m sure I’ll need it_.

*

“I knew your father, you know,” Nechayev tells her, sometime later, when the ice has cooled between them and they have ventured tentatively into the realm of small talk.

Kathryn looks up at this, surprised, and says, “I didn’t know that.”

“We met only twice, but he made quite an impression on me.” Nechayev takes a quick sip of Tarkalian tea, but the movement doesn’t completely disguise her smile. “Actually, he played a part in my decision to pursue command.”

“Really?”

“My second year out of the Academy I was assigned to assist in the Mars project he was supervising. He told me that there was no use in my being a science officer if I was going to spend all day ‘staring out the window imagining I was the one giving the orders’.”

Kathryn is astonished, at the revelation as much as the information itself, and can't help raising her eyebrows.

“I was terribly apologetic, of course, until he told me that he wasn’t interested in hearing it – he said he wanted his officers to make the most of their abilities and ambitions, and that he’d only be disappointed if I didn’t pursue what I wanted to do, because at that moment I was displaying all the focus of a drunken Klingon.”

At that, Kathryn almost chokes on her drink. “You? I’m sorry, Admiral, I mean to say – you were reprimanded for lack of focus?”

“It wasn’t my finest moment,” Nechayev says sternly, “and, if you please, that is privileged information that goes no further.”

The smirk tugs at the corners of Kathryn's mouth. “Of course.”

“I just told you because I—” she pauses, softens very slightly, “—because I thought you might like to know. Admiral Janeway was a difficult man to impress, but he was also the only officer I knew who took one look at me and knew that I wasn’t content being where I was. He could read people. I suspect that you inherited that particular trait from him.” She says it wryly, but there is an undercurrent of warmth to her voice that makes Kathryn warm in turn, and she can’t help but smile at the thought of her father.

“That sounds like him, doesn’t it? Intuitive, hard-nosed—Starfleet to the core.”

“It’s unfortunate that he isn’t here to see you take this command. I’m sure he’d be proud of what you’ve achieved, Captain. As you ought to be.”

She changes the subject without another word to that, and if Kathryn's eyes are looking a little mistier than before, Nechayev has the courtesy to pretend not to notice.

*

Sometimes, Kathryn wonders what Nechayev would be like out of her uniform, under soft light, hair pulled from its regulation bun and falling free across her slim shoulders. She wonders if it would reach down her back, if it’s wavy or straight or thick, if it's naturally blond. If it’s as soft as it looks.

Unnoticed, Kathryn studies her from side-on: fierce, petite, not beautiful, her face all deliberate angles and harsh lines, sharp like her commbadge and the black-rimmed red of her uniform, each constructed as a barrier between Alynna Nechayev and the world around her.

Admiral Alynna Nechayev, they all say, the woman who lives each moment to give her life to service, to the success of Starfleet Command and the Federation. Alynna Nechayev, the woman with the stony smile, the woman born with creases around her eyes. She's barely human, they say. Ruthless, frosty, unbelieving, unforgiving.

 _Strong_ , Kathryn thinks, as she watches Nechayev fold her hands in front of her. Strong, and maybe just a little bit alone.

She tries to dismiss the thoughts as soon as they come to her, of course – she doubts that Nechayev would appreciate such speculation on her personal life – but that occasionally proves to be easier said than done.

*

The day before _Voyager_ is due to ship out, dusk approaching, Kathryn stands just inside the doorway of Nechayev's office and smiles. “Good evening, Admiral.”

Nechayev looks up from her desk, engrossed in her work, and looks at her for a moment before she smiles back. “Captain,” she says. She stands and walks around to rest her weight on the front of her desk, a motion of casualness that Kathryn could not have imagined her making even two weeks earlier. “How are you faring?”

“Well,” Kathryn says. “I've just been by to see Admiral Paris, and I thought I'd drop in to—” she's about to say _say goodbye_ but then it feels suddenly too intimate, out of place in this close, quiet room, “—see if there was any last-minute information you had for me.”

Nechayev shakes her head. “Nothing beyond what we discussed at our briefing yesterday.”

Kathryn nods, casts a glance around her; Nechayev's office is well-situated, high and light, and the pinkish tint of the waning sun slips in from across the water. She realises that she is staring, and lifts her eyes back to the admiral's face; realises that Nechayev has been watching her watch the sky. Their eyes meet and they are silent – not quite comfortable, despite Kathryn's certainty that Nechayev doesn't expect her to speak. She seems uncharacteristically unhurried herself.

The moment stretches, too long; Kathryn clears her throat, and thinks – almost thinks – she sees something flash in Nechayev's eyes, something bright – almost heated – and looks away. A trick of the light, she's sure.

“Well,” she says, with a resignation that sounds affected even to her own ears, “I should be going.”

“Yes,” says Nechayev, “I suppose you should.” There comes then a sudden mischief in her expression, almost incongruous to the tension thick between them, and she says: “If my memory serves me correctly, _Voyager_ leaves for the Badlands tomorrow?”

Kathryn quirks a smile, plays along. “That’s right.”

“I trust you’re prepared?”

Now she grins. “After five weeks of pre-mission briefings and dreams about the DMZ? I’m confident I’m on top of it.”

Nechayev stands straight, the picture of professional courtesy, and extends her hand. “Then I wish you the best of luck, Captain. You return to Earth in three weeks?”

The invitation is there. It is veiled beneath Nechayev's polite inflection and the shield of her eyes, but Kathryn hears it – the invitation is there.

“Three weeks.”

Nechayev smiles now, faintly, softened by the lights from the bay. She says: “Very well. I’ll contact you then.”

“I look forward to it.”


End file.
